


All We Are Is All We Are

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-24
Updated: 2011-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:37:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story is the same—and so shall be the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All We Are Is All We Are

Title: All We Are Is All We Are  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/the general public  
Rating: PG-13ish  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Through S2.  
Summary: The story is the same—and so shall be the end.  
A/N: Title from Anberlin's "Fin."

  
**1**

Her parents don’t look at her. They never have, and she’s recently come to the conclusion that they never—no matter the honor roll status, the cheerleading trophies, or the sheer volume of detention slips she brings home—will. To them, she is little more than a fourth plate on the table, a five-foot-four body with great hair to fill the All-American void.

So she goes elsewhere. Attention is high school currency, and she is hot, popular, forever frightening her way to the top. Who needs parents? She can do them one better.

This is why she has boys.

Specifically, Noah Puckerman, grade-A swagger complete with mohawk and absolute doucheitude. What he lacks in grades, he makes up for in groping, and though there is no way in hell he will ever be Husband Material, she couldn’t care less. Husbands are for the blonde angels flitting in and out of Sue Sylvester’s office chairs. Husbands are for chumps.

All she needs is a good solid fuck.

And that much, Puckerman is more than capable to offer.

From their second date on—if the first could even really be called a “date”; running into someone at the Lima Cineplex and coming to the joint realization that no, neither of them really need to see _juno_ again, isn’t what she’d call Planning in Advance—they’ve been going at it like jackrabbits. At first, it sort of sucked; she’ll never admit it to anyone (not that anyone would ever ask in the first place), but sex takes a while to get totally used to. Not like Puckerman was her first. Not like she’d give a shit if he was.

He wasn’t her first, he definitely isn’t her only, but hot damn—once the boy gets going, he goes _good_. Three go-rounds later, and she is up and into it, full-throttle. His trunk, her pool, that cramped, ever-high-sung darkness under the football bleachers—it doesn’t matter where. It doesn’t matter when. All that matters is that Puckerman, for all his idiocy and pitiful attempts at Being The Man, is a sex _god_.

Not that she’ll ever tell him that.

It’s something in the way he moves, every inch the confident, cocky bastard strolling McKinley’s halls. It’s not a mask; he isn’t putting on airs. He genuinely believes that façade, and when his hands grasp her hips, rolling her forward and down, she believes it too. Not in any complete, fill-that-hole way, but it’s enough. Rocking against his sheer strength, feeling the calloused fingers leaving bruises on her skin, she revels. It’s that handful of stark, sweat-soaked moments, staring down at his taut brow, listening to his low grunts and controlled murmurs. It’s something a thousand girls will see in this Breakfast Club lifetime, and she doesn’t care. It isn’t about being the One, the Only, the Ideal.

It’s about the bump and grind of it all, watching the muscles strain in his arms, digging her hands into the sheets around his shoulders. It’s about the way he looks at her, long-lashed and grinning as he comes, laughing around the orgasm when her back arches and her mouth falls open. Noah Puckerman thinks he’s a god, and for that split second, she sure as fuck feels like she’s being worshiped too.

But, as all good things must, it ends. Not the sex; she’s pretty sure that part could go on for hours, days, years, if she was willing to let it. But then, it’s never been about the sex. Not really.

It’s about the way he looks at her.

And right now, he’s sending that look just the wrong number of inches to her left. Draping that expression of vibrant, pulsing hope over the shoulders of the wrong height, the wrong color hair, the wrong spot on the pyramid.

Just like that, she knows it’s over. The sex could go on to infinity and back again, but it will never count again. Not for her.

She moves on.

  


**2**

Maybe the next choice could be a little better—a little less Herculean in size and minimalist in mental stature, for instance?—but it seems like the best idea given the circumstances. She needs someone to look at her like that again, to fill her up and make her feel like, if only for that moment, she is the thing that matters most in this world.

Finn Hudson is an idiot and a child and sometimes rocks the strangest combination of egomaniac and coward, but he is exactly the kind of boy who was designed to worship someone like her. He just doesn’t know it yet.

Getting his attention is the easiest thing she’s ever done. A few batted eyelashes here, a dab of lipstick here, and there it is: the gleam. His eyes widen just that bare extra inch when he sees her coming, his shoulders rolling back as his chest juts out. The Football Captain. How adorable.

She hates him a little bit. But the minute he figures _that_ out, she’s royally screwed. No point there.

Getting his attention isn’t the problem. _Keeping_ it, unexpectedly, is: Finn Hudson is so severely wrapped around the midget-sized finger of one Rachel Pain-In-The-Ass Berry that it’s hard to get him even marginally unwound. But that’s what she’s here for, her one major lot in life. Sometimes, it just takes a little effort.

Not much, though.

She’s got him by the balls—so to speak—the second he realizes he’s lost Berry to the clutches of The Enemy (she actually does care about that a little bit, but she’s never going to say so; mentioning her pitiful attachment to Glee just the once was gag-inducing enough). She can see it in the set of his jaw, the way he runs his fingers nervously through his hair and shifts from one Hulk-sized foot to the other. Hook. Line. Sinker. No boy has ever been so easy.

Getting him to swipe his mom’s credit card and put a down payment on the dingiest room in the sleasiest hotel in Ohio isn’t such a big deal either. She’s a little shocked, actually; Finn’s always been something of a mama’s boy, a goody-two-shoes who probably shouldn’t even know where the Wrong Side of the Tracks is in the first place. But here he is, shaking in his skivvies.

It is easily the most awkward experience of her life.

That’s fine, though; awkwardness isn’t scary anymore. It’s one of those things that lost its luster years ago, back in the time of her Firsts: first kiss, first blowjob, first fingering. A long, long time ago.

He looks at her like she’s his singular saving grace, backlit by miserable crimson lighting from the window. Like she’s something heaven-sent, which is genuinely funny—she actually has to bite back a laugh as she grasps fistfuls of his hair and jerks his face down so it’s level with her own. Laughing wouldn’t do the trick right now; a guy like Finn, so malleable, is easily bruised. Easily scared off.

The big, strong Captain is weaker than anybody seems to realize. It’s what makes him perfect.

He doesn’t last long at all, legs shivering, arms trembling as he holds himself up. His fingers twist in the worn bedsheets as his hips jerk sporadically, mouth lolling open like a recently gutted fish. Lying there, staring up at him boredly, she wonders how she ever could have found him the least bit attractive.

And then his eyes pry open—and there it is. The moment. Not as long as what Puckerman had to offer, and not _nearly_ as impressive, but the spark is there all the same. He sees her—not as The Cheerleader or The Background Dancer or The Bitch. He just… _sees_ her. For that split second, the air around them goes still.

He’s out and pulling up his sweatpants before she can breathe, rolling to a sitting position and wrapping his arms protectively around himself. Cheeks bursting with color, hair mussed and sticking out every which way, he looks like an upset little boy just sent to the corner for the very first time.

It doesn’t take long at all to realize he will never be useful again. Not like that, anyway, not with that intense burst of raw vitality. Finn isn’t the kind of guy who does passion for long; that’s Puckerman’s range. Finn’s is decidedly more Home Grown Farm Boy.

The Perfect Future Husband, if you will—assuming he ever gets his head out of his giant misogynistic ass. She sees a bright future there—

For someone else.

Right now, she needs a burger, and then she needs someone new. The feeding frenzy, she thinks wryly, is one of those processes without conceivable end.

It takes a while.

  


**3**

 

If Finn is the world’s largest manchild, Sam Evans is fifteen times worse. Almost as dumb, only marginally prettier, and carting so much nerd baggage, she almost retches the first time he opens his abnormally massive mouth. He shouldn’t be a good target, shouldn’t have any purpose at all—except he’s vulnerable. Maybe not quite like Finn in the wake of Babygate, but not too terribly far off.

She’s pretty sure Quinn was his first girlfriend, and _that_ blow always stings the worst.

So he’s dorky, and he seems to think _Avatar_ is a legitimate favorite film, and she can’t look at his lips without imagining him swallowing a goldfish whole—but he is almost as bad off as she is. He needs something too, maybe even more desperately. Playing second-string on the Football Team that Wins Occasionally (Maybe, If There’s Singing) won’t keep him afloat for long.

She finds out pretty quickly that it isn’t going to be sex this time. That’s weird, and new, but she isn’t in a position to be choosy. Not with Puckerman flying off the handle for one Lauren “Sure, She Kicked My Ass, But Shut The Fuck Up About It” Zizes. Not with Finn making goo-goo eyes at the very woman who first crunched his collapsible heart beneath her pristine white sneaker. It’s Sam or No-Man’s Land, and she is _so_ not prepared for that voyage.

So she goes with it. He definitely isn’t above making out—although, seriously, someone with a bonafied black hole hanging out under his nose should have some skills in this department, and Sam genuinely does not. He gets a little gropey from time to time, but nothing that wows her in any capacity. Mostly, she just feels like she’s bearing down fast on a steak that isn’t going to last her the hour.

It’s less than pleasant, truth be told. And it is definitely not likely to give her what she’s looking for.

She straddles his lap, sitting at the heart (of all things) of a Rachel Berry House Party. A wall of sound on all sides, Gleeks jumping and screaming and crooning 80s ballads, and Sam’s hands feel heavier than usual as they work gingerly up the back of her shirt. Maybe it’s the alcohol winding him down a little, or maybe it’s the fact that Quinn is longingly gazing at them from five feet away. Either way, it’s doing _her_ some good.

It isn’t the best kind of attention, since it’s not _really_ about her, but the buzz isn’t bad. A short zap, one that might hold her out until something more convenient comes along. Maybe good ol’ Chang-and-Chang will be Splitsville sometime soonish. The combined Latin-Asian flavor could be interesting.

But that’s skipping ahead. Right now, this is where she needs to be. Getting whatever somethin’ something’ Sammy boy is willing to give out.

She feasts on the fact that he is doing this for the exact reasons she is, on the flex of his fingertips against the curve of her spine, on the smoldering Death Glare Quinn is attempting to send her way all the while. It’s delicious to sense so much abject want in the air, and all of it to do with her. Delicious, if not ideal or lasting.

She knows it’s not going to last much longer, that the intoxication will wear off as surely as the tequila she downed not an hour ago. She knows she’ll have to keep moving.

For now, she grinds down against Sam’s jeans, hands buried in his too-blonde Bieber hair, and she drinks it in as long as she’s able.

  


**4**

  
This.

This is exactly what cannot happen.

Cannot. Should not.

Is.

The metal of the lockers bites into her back, her jacket hiked up and taking her t-shirt with it. It hurts, in that brilliant star-fire kind of way that echoes up and down and through her. Her feet keep slipping against scratched tile, her hands scrambling to take hold of something for longer than a few seconds.

Brittany bats her away. Brittany _keeps_ batting her away, and it’s driving her completely insane, even as the taller girl’s mouth descends upon hers again and again, feverish and wild. The kind of kiss she’s been craving for what feels like a lifetime. The kind of kissing she is sure she’d be content with for the rest of forever.

It’s the worst idea she has ever had, just like every time it has crossed her mind before.

This is the thing that has never worked. Not once. Not in all the many (many, _many_ ) times she has tried. This is the one jolt that never does the trick, and she can’t explain why. She doesn’t really want to. The minute she makes sense of it—

Well, that’s the minute she’ll have to stop.

And right now, that is the absolute last thing on her mind. With Brittany’s body molding to hers, with Brittany’s teeth coming down fiercely against her neck, with Brittany’s hand popping the button on her designer jeans and working its way in, stopping isn’t an option. It’s not a question. It’s not even a thought.

She grasps for the hat on Brittany’s head—today, a fuzzy winter number—and rips it off. Blonde hair springs to greet her, tousled and just the least bit mad with static cling. Head slamming against the lockers, she grins and gives a sharp pull, just enough to earn a hiss and a subtle glare before Brittany works her way down.

This is a danger zone—maybe _the_ Danger Zone. This is the thing she has stayed away from for months, and she has done so for a reason. This is the _bad_ kind of attention, the _worst_ kind, the kind that can never be enough.

This is the one she will always want more from.

The charge that will never entirely finish.

This is the one that can’t end, because when it does, so will she.

She’s been putting it off again, the way she does whenever she manages to drag all of her senses bodily back into place. She pushed Brittany away, shoved her with enough force to send the dancer spiraling into the lap of the resident Nerdy Cripple, and for a while, it was the right decision. It is always the right decision.

She just never manages to cling to it. Not for long. Not the way she knows she needs to.

Brittany’s fingers begin to work their usual nimble magic—familiar, perfect, yet every second feels so mind-numbingly new that she can barely smother her moans with that blonde hair. Her body trembles and jerks in response, responding to the strokes like she’s nothing more than an instrument Brittany hasn’t taken off the shelf in weeks. There’s no control here, no purpose, no comprehensible meaning; it’s all about _now_.

It’s always about now, but this…this isn’t the same. This isn’t knowing the flare will die down the second she rolls off of Puckerman and begins searching for her clothes. This isn’t understanding how brief a spell can be cast by the likes of Finn Hudson. This isn’t suspecting Sam is not only perfectly hung up on Quinn, but also maybe-kinda-really pretty gay to boot, and realizing the only juice she’ll get off of him is the sheer rush of exhibitionism.

This is _now_ , in the total, literal, Buddhist interpretation of the word, and _now_ is sparks and fireworks and roaring, frantic power.

This can’t be. This can’t stick. This can’t be something she comes crawling back to again and again (even though she does) or something Brittany is willing to accept, no matter what (even though she is). This _can’t_ be something she continues to let run her.

Because, in the end? She is still Santana Lopez. In the end, she has not changed a single bit, not from that first hungry fuck with Puckerman, or that first calculated flirty wink sent Finn’s way, or that first power-desperate conversation with Sam in the library. She has not changed at all—she still _wants_ , and _craves_ , and _needs_ , and that isn’t going to fix itself.

That’s not how things work. Life _doesn’t_ fix itself, and she’ll be damned if she knows how to make the repairs on her own. She only knows one thing.

 _She_ hasn’t changed.

And if she hasn’t, nothing has.

No change means everything is the same, and if the story is the same, so will be the ending. Each and every painful, heart-wrenching time.

She can ride Brittany’s fingers, and Brittany’s smile, and Brittany’s unshakable high as many times as she likes, but in the end, she has absolutely no idea how to _accept_ any of that. Not totally. Not the way she needs to, in order to make it real.

The story is the same.

So shall be the end.

She needs to move on before it happens again.


End file.
